Sherlock stared at the imperfect circle on his left wrist in horror, then sat down on his bed with a bit of a thump. After over thirty years, his heartmark was finally showing activity. This was not good.

Sherlock is peculiar, disgusting, and completely useless at being a decent dragon.

'Neural handshake at 100%,' Mycroft says crisply. 'How do you feel?' It's astounding. There is so much to see in Sherlock's mind-- the tiny details, the analyses of different kaiju forms, their advantages and their structural weaknesses. It feels amazing. John stretches a hand out to brush against the blue bursts of memories between them, and Sherlock pushes through towards his own. They exist as a perfect balance within the drift, calm yet stormy, pushing and pulling. John feels invincible. Wherein John is a war-weary soldier thrown back into the fray, and Sherlock is one of the top kaiju analysts.

"This is why you didn't tell me, isn't it," John said.

“My high school reunion is on,” John tells Molly. There’s a short pause as she processes this. “That sounds like fun,” she offers. “Do you want to go?” “Oh yes, because that couldn’t possibly go badly. ‘Hello, I’m John Watson, I’m a professional killer.’ ” A Grosse Pointe Blank AU.

Sherlock has just run off in a whirlwind of coat without a word, leaving Scotland Yard cursing his name. It’ll be a while before they can get someone to translate this, and meanwhile that tall know-it-all bastard has gone off to do god-knows-what without bothering to even tell them what the note says. John edges forward in the middle of the uproar, and surreptitiously glances at the note. Androvy, it says briefly. The warehouse at five. Serdyukov. John seems like such an ordinary bloke. Appearances can be deceptive.

The thing that made it so easy to hide was that everyone knew what dragons were supposed to be like. John heard people wonder about Sherlock sometimes, sending him slanting, speculative glances, as they questioned his lineage. But John Watson, who was steady, reliable, even-tempered? He slid right under their radar, just another average human being in a world full of them.

“Eternity is really rather boring, John. Mortal life seemed as though it would be far more interesting.” Sherlock is actually the Devil, but he decided to live as a mortal because ruling Hell was boring.

What it says on the tin. (Including Follow-ups to: Maybe one of these days you can let the light in, and One Of Those Things, and Mrs and Mr Pond..)

And how things could have gone differently.

“Your first mistake,” John says smoothly, “was calling yourself Moriarty. It got my attention.” In which Jim is not, in fact, Moriarty.

In which John learns to balance a kinky girlfriend, an asexual boyfriend, a ten-inch cock, his sister, the neighbours, his friends, and his blog. Some are more balanced than others.

"Oh bloody fucking DAMN!" Sherlock shouted, apropos of nothing. John nearly dropped his tea. John turned and found Sherlock shaking his passport. "Mycroft made me French!"

“Trust me,” Mary whispers, and in a louder voice: “Come in, Sherlock.”

“Fuck,” John says, admiringly. He enjoys giving women head, but this is something else altogether. This is devotion beyond the call of duty. This is fucking worshiping at the altar of Mary Morstan.

On any given day, Sherlock might come out of the bathroom smelling like an Alpha on the hunt (Alpha #8) or an Omega in heat (Omega #9), a Beta brooding (Beta #3), or like no gender at all. The last one was his actual scent, which wasn't so much scentless as confusing. At least in an adult. If Sherlock and John were the sort of people to read Mills and Boon novels, they could have said that what occurred was because destiny intervened and set two destined lovers in their one true pairings' path. It was the lasagna.

Sherlock needs John. John lights up around Sherlock. Mary loves her boys and thinks this is a lot less complicated than they are making it. Set right after TEH and before SoT. Fast turning into a bloody epic season three fix-it.

Three weeks after their wedding, they give Sherlock a ring.

This fic goes canon divergent for everything following Mary acting as a client in His Last Vow. Sherlock misses John. John misses Sherlock. Victor Trevor, Sherlock's oldest friend (and a super nice guy in this version) and participant in the 'great sexual experiment of '98' shows up to cuddle the hell out of a touch-starved Sherlock, get him talking, and get those two idiots back together. He'll work on Mary later. One fucked-up couple at a time is all he can handle.

“A few weeks ago I would have thought you were impossible,” Sherlock begins, walking into the kitchen in his blue robe, and John – not quite catching on – wants to scoff and argue, No, actually, you are impossible, but then Sherlock continues: “But now I’d say you are improbable.” John thinks this might be flattering, if he could wrap his head around it, but he can’t – Sherlock is standing near, steaming his sun-baked-clean-sand smell, like the beach after rain, an alive smell, an other smell. It’s intoxicating, and John has been studiously avoiding it, but he can’t shift away now it’s so near. Now Sherlock’s so near. And then Sherlock ruins the probable-loveliness of his words and the definite-beauty of his presence by saying: “And by ‘improbable’ I mean ‘not yet scientifically acknowledged.’”

They'd never talked about sex in the year they'd known each other. Well, that wasn't quite correct: Sherlock had never said a word about sex; John had bemoaned his personal dearth of it on many occasions.

Yusuke isn't the only spirit detective in the world. Five AUs.